


A Scandal in Baker Street

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1862 fix, Canon Divergence, Declarations Of Love, M/M, mild angst with happy ending, very mild h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are not speaking--but that silence will be broken after they are recruited to impersonate Sherlock Holmes and John Watson for one extraordinary evening.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	A Scandal in Baker Street

November 1882

Crowley sauntered along Oxford Street on a gray rainy day, minding his own business, when he was startled by the sight of Aziraphale walking towards him from half a block away. As he looked for a doorway to pop into and hide, he heard the fellow shout.

“Holmes! Whatever are you doing out in public? We agreed that only I should leave the flat.” He had caught up with Crowley now, halting a few feet away on the pavement. “It is far too dangerous. And why are you wearing those absurd spectacles? They do little in the way of a disguise.”

Crowley stared at him. “Aziraphale, what are you playing at?”

“Azir—what?” The fellow stepped a foot closer. “Holmes?”

“I said, what are you playing at, you idiot—” And then he realized that he couldn’t smell the angel’s tell-tale scent of honey and apple blossoms, nor could he sense his supernatural nature. Crowley stepped a foot closer. The fellow’s eyes were a solid brown, unlike Aziraphale’s changeable ones, his hair was a shade darker, and there wasn’t a single inch of tartan anywhere in his suit. “Er. Ngk.”

The fellow peered more closely as well. “You are _not_ Sherlock Holmes, are you?”

“Who?” What a ridiculous name. Crowley stepped back a ways. From a distance, he did look extraordinarily like Aziraphale. “Who are _you?”_

“I am Doctor John Watson. My apologies, sir.” Then his eyes widened. “Why, this is capital!” He clapped his hands. “Precisely what we’ve been searching for—oh, and to _think_ of all those unsuitable fellows who have been parading in and out of our lodgings these past three weeks. None of them came close! But you! Sir, oh my dear Sir—what is your name?”

“Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. What are you blathering about?”

“You are the veritable twin of Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

“So?” Crowley shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

Doctor Watson nodded. “No, I suppose not, though that shall change once I pen my tales of his doings. For Sherlock Holmes is the finest crime solver in the land, my good fellow. The world’s first consulting detective. He has used his profound knowledge and brilliant deductions to bear on cases of the highest import!”

“Right. Bully for him. Can I get on with my walk now?” He had been heading for home, where a few bottles of wine were awaiting his attentions.

“Ah, but I have a proposal for you.” Watson grabbed his sleeve. “And it is vital to the security of our fair land.”

Crowley shook himself free. “Bugger off.”

“Oh, please listen! Why, you mistook me for someone else—this Azir—what was it?”

“Azira—A. Z. Fell. Bookseller I know. Used to know.” They had not spoken since that argument over the holy water two decades ago. “Whatever. There’s a faint resemblance—"

“But that’s perfect! We need doppelgangers, you see—Holmes and I. We sort of work together, and our current case involves Her Royal—oh, dear, forget I said that. The thing is, we are being watched. Our lodgings—that is, we share lodgings in Baker Street—are under continual surveillance by our enemies. I can slip out, for they don’t view me as threatening. I only took up sharing quarters with Holmes less than a year ago. Holmes, however, needs to get out to capture this gang’s leader. Although he is a master of disguise, his enemies have been quick to catch on to him—to anyone leaving 221B. He has been hounded back to his lair. So you see, what we have been searching for is someone to impersonate him, to fool them into believing he is still inside, and why, it would be even more useful if we had _two_ replacements! You _and_ your friend to play Holmes and myself, for that way, I could aid him in this dangerous exploit.”

What a peculiar request. “You want us to put ourselves in danger?”

“No danger at all, I swear! They never come inside—they wouldn’t dare. All we require is perhaps four or five hours of playacting from afar, simply staying inside, making brief appearances at the windows. They are quite comfortable rooms, with meals provided. Naturally, there would be generous compensation.”

“Not interested.” Crowley turned to walk off, and then abruptly stopped. Spend several hours in close company with Aziraphale? Who wasn’t talking to him? 

Spend that time with the angel he desperately missed, and wanted back in his life in the worst way….

He turned back. “What if my fr—acquaintance—won’t cooperate?”

“Surely there must be some inducement he cannot refuse, if duty to Queen and country does not suffice.”

“Have you paper and pen to hand?”

Doctor Watson handed him a business card and a fountain pen. Crowley scribbled the bookshop address. “Do not tell him that I am the other half of this dual impersonation. I wish to surprise the dear fellow.” He handed the items back. “Knowing him, duty to Queen and country will work, but if it doesn’t, how much can you spend?”

“We have been given _carte blanche_ by Her Majesty.”

“Ah, good. Then all you will need do is offer Mr. Fell whichever manuscript he fancies most among the collection in the British Museum.”

Watson didn’t even blink at such an outrageous suggestion. “That can be arranged.”

Crowley smiled. “Where and when would you like us all to meet up?”

*

221B Baker Street, 7:00pm

The instructions had been most elaborate. Each day, the enemy forces watching Holmes’ and Watson’s establishment changed personnel during the dinner hour. On this evening, during that moment of distraction, Watson arranged for Crowley to arrive at the front door in the guise of an aristocratic visitor, using a carriage with armorial bearings and two footmen, ostensibly to consult the great detective. At the same time, he told Crowley, he had convinced Mr. A.Z. Fell to arrive at the servants’ entrance in the rear disguised as an employee of their regular laundry collection service.

They would have no more than thirty minutes at the most before suspicions might arise, and must exchange clothing and have any questions answered in that time.

Crowley had a feeling, as the ornate carriage pulled up to the lodging house, that Aziraphale would have plenty of questions.

He waited for the footman to lower the carriage steps, and then descended with appropriate _hauteur_. He strode briskly up the porch. He carried a cane, and used it to tap imperiously upon the front door. It was opened by a female of indeterminate age. “I am expected,” he said loudly. “Do step aside, my good woman.”

She did so, muttering under her breath. “Up to more shenanigans. I never get a moment’s peace in my own house.”

As she closed the front door and gestured at the stairs, there was a commotion at the rear of the hallway. “That will be the laundry. Never a moment’s peace!” She bustled off.

Crowley climbed seventeen steps, knocked lightly at a door, and was instantly admitted to a spacious sitting room. He gazed round at its singular décor. The standard Victorian furniture did not surprise—armchairs, settee, a small breakfast table, bookcases, two desks. What did catch his notice was a bench covered with what looked like chemical apparatus, and on the fireplace mantel stood a skull next to an odd-looking, perhaps Oriental, slipper.

“Ah, so pleased to meet my doppelganger!” A tall man rose from the settee. He held a pipe in one hand. “And what a likeness—it’s quite remarkable.”

Crowley stared at his near mirror-image. Indeed, he was of a similar height, and rail thin. He had expressive eyebrows above a pair of striking gray eyes, a suitably sharp, hawklike nose, strong lips, and high cheekbones. His dark brown hair had no hint of red, but beneath a hat, few would notice, and certainly not in the evening darkness. “Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

“The very same. Mr. Crowley, I am hugely indebted to you, and to your friend Mr. Fell. With your aid, we shall bring a gang of nefarious spies to heel, and all British citizens shall dwell in greater security.”

Footsteps announced the next arrival. As the landlady ushered him in, Aziraphale caught sight of Crowley. “What are _you_ doing here!?”

The sight amused Crowley deeply—his erstwhile friend looked ridiculous in the gray, shabby uniform and cap of the laundry service. He forced down a laugh, and merely gave a nonchalant shrug. “Seems I make a fine Holmes to your Watson.”

“I absolutely refuse to be a party to this charade!” Aziraphale turned to the real Watson. “Why did you not tell me this devious miscreant was involved?”

Watson cast Crowley a curious look. “He asked me not to. A little surprise, he told me.”

“Well, I have no time for his little surprises!”

But as Aziraphale turned to leave, Sherlock Holmes moved swiftly, grabbing his arm. “Stay put, my man!” He scowled at Crowley, then looked back to Aziraphale. “I have no idea what the history is between you two, but we are working to save the nation from impending disaster! If the plans fall into these people’s hands—oh, I cannot explain, it is far too secret. Believe me, there is no time to waste on histrionics. You _must_ stay and play your parts, both of you, and we must exchange clothing posthaste!” He snapped his fingers angrily. “Come, come, buck up and do your duty!”

Aziraphale looked round at Crowley, Watson, and Holmes in turn. His gaze settled on Crowley. “You foul fiend, I shall _not_ forget this!” Then he stepped fully into the room and began taking off his uniform.

They quickly changed outfits, with Holmes turning into an aristocrat, while Watson became the lowly laundry servant. Crowley donned Holmes’s three-piece suit, and took hold of the pipe. Aziraphale looked much more himself in Watson’s suit, complete with pocket watch.

“The glasses?” Holmes asked Crowley. “Are they medical? One does not typically wear such dark lenses in the evening.”

Crowley nodded. He was not about to hand them over—nor reveal his serpentine eyes. “A hereditary condition. I cannot see without them.” But he always carried spares. “You’ll find another pair in my left coat pocket.”

“Ah, so I have.” Holmes donned the dark spectacles. “I can see perfectly well through them, at least. Now then, the instructions are simple.” He waved towards the windows, which faced the street. “Sit in the armchairs by the window as often as possible, with the table lamp on. As you can see, you have plenty of reading matter to hand, and you are welcome to as much of the shag as you wish to smoke. The bedroom through that door is mine—I keep odd hours, so you may put the light on there and move about at any time.”

He turned to Aziraphale. “I’m afraid Watson is more regular in his habits. You ought to retire around ten or eleven.”

He turned back to Crowley. “I don’t suppose you play the violin?”

“Sorry, no.”

“No matter. There is a gramophone—” Holmes pointed it out in a dark corner. “Put on any of the recordings stacked beside it, at irregular intervals, with the window cracked open, if you please.” He snatched a violin case from another corner. “Can you stand near the window and at least pretend to scratch at the instrument?”

“I can manage that much.”

“Good man. Do not damage it. It is priceless.” Holmes looked them both over. “You fit the clothing well. There is no reason someone from the street would look into our windows and see any other than Holmes and Watson.”

“It’s far enough away, yes,” Aziraphale put in. “What if someone comes to this door?”

“Unlikely at night, though not impossible. However, even should our enemies send a spy, perhaps in the guise of a potential client, I do believe your remarkable similarities to ourselves will fool those who have not met us in person before, and to my knowledge, not one of these criminals has done so.”

“Yes, that’s mildly reassuring,” Aziraphale said, “but what are we supposed to _do_ if they send up a false client? We have no notion of how to behave as consulting detectives.”

Holmes clapped him on the shoulder. “Simply send them away! You are far too preoccupied with other matters to take on a new case now. Be brusque.” He glanced at Crowley. “In portraying _me_ , you may be downright rude. I understand that I am often dismissive, off in a mental world of my own, and eccentric in the extreme.”

“Not a problem,” Crowley replied. He grinned. “I’m not exactly an angel myself.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake—” Aziraphale broke off. “Oh, never mind.” He pouted. “Do be so good, Mr. Holmes, as to keep to your promise of no more than four or five hours away.” He glared at Crowley. “I cannot be held responsible for my actions after that time is up.”

“Have no fear, my good fellow.” Holmes donned the top hat Crowley had worn, and picked up the cane. “Come, Watson—let us away. The game is afoot!”

They departed down the stairs. Crowley strode to the window, and saw Holmes stepping into the carriage a few moments later. No doubt Watson had scuttled off down the alley via the servants’ entrance, loaded down with laundry bags.

And indeed, as Aziraphale came over to stand beside him, a laundry wagon pulled by a mule emerged from the alley and trundled off down the street.

“You are a wily, lying, underhanded—”

“Hush, Angel.” Crowley just wanted to relax in the presence of his best friend, without arguing, though he knew that wasn’t going to happen. “I’m tired. And it’s dinner time.”

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson knocked on the still-open door. She carried in a tray of food. “Roast beef with parsnips tonight.” She set it on the dining table. “Apple Charlotte for afters. Will you be wanting coffee?”

Crowley was busy examining a spirit case near the window. So far he had found nothing but brandy in it. “No coffee. How is your wine cellar?”

Mrs. Hudson drew herself up. “This house does keep spiritous liquors, young man. If you want wine, you must send a boy to the shops.”

Crowley turned away and coughed to cover up a snap of his fingers that produced a wad of currency. He turned round to hand Mrs. Hudson a generous amount. “Do be so kind as to find one of these street urchins, and have him bring back as many bottles as he can carry.” He found notepaper and pen on one of the desks, and wrote down several common wines. “Any of these sorts will do.” He wasn’t feeling particular.

Mrs. Hudson departed, leaving them in peace.

Or rather, leaving them in frosty silence.

They ate their dinner without speaking a single word. Or rather, Aziraphale ate, while Crowley nibbled at the dessert. It was one of the quickest meals his friend had ever consumed in his presence.

When he was finished, Aziraphale sat down in the armchair nearest the window, noisily unfolded the _Times_ lying on the side table, and buried himself behind it.

_Right._ Crowley sighed. He got up and meandered slowly round the room, studying its peculiarities. He picked up the slipper on the mantel. It was stuffed with shag tobacco. He set it down. In the center of the mantel, several letters were affixed with a dagger. “Our client is a tad odd.”

The newspaper rustled, but Aziraphale did not reply.

_Whatever_. Crowley looked over the mysterious chemical glassware. There were books on a nearby shelf about poisons. _Great_.

Then, as he continued his survey, he noticed the bullet holes in the wall which spelled out V R.

He coughed. “Aziraphale….”

The paper rustled again, followed by a long sigh. “Yes?”

Crowley looked over. Aziraphale had at least lowered the newspaper. “Look.” He pointed out the holes. “This Holmes fellow shoots his wall.”

“He does _what?”_

“These are bullet holes. V and R. What’s that in aid of?”

“Victoria Regina, I imagine.”

“Ah. Very patriotic of him.” 

The paper rustled back into place, hiding Aziraphale’s face. “I am still not speaking to you.”

“Oh, come on, Angel. Don’t be like that. Please?” Crowley crossed to the window and peeked out. He saw a dark figure lurking in a doorway on the opposite side of the street. “We’re being watched.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale lowered the paper and glanced out. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? We are supposed to be watched. Those people out there—whoever they are—must believe that ‘Holmes’ and ‘Watson’ are still here.”

“Maybe I should play the violin for a bit.” Crowley went to the gramophone and put on a recording. He picked up the violin and the bow, and returned to the window. He opened it a crack, and as the music played, he pretended to scrape the bow across the strings.

The cold November air bit into this face. _Damn_. What had that fool Holmes been thinking, to tell him to do this? Bastard. Maybe he had no heart. Or maybe he was immune to temperature…clearly the Great Detective was eccentric enough to be close to inhuman.

“Do close that window,” Aziraphale said. “It’s freezing.”

“Sorry.” Crowley closed it. He set the violin aside, and shut off the recording. 

He wandered about some more, examining bookcases, until rapid steps on the stairs and a quick series of raps on the door announced the arrival of the wine.

He paid off the ragged youth who brought two sacks of bottles, with a handsome tip. When the door was closed on their little hideaway once more, Crowley rummaged up two glasses.

He settled into the armchair a few feet from Aziraphale’s. “I’ll just sit here and behave myself.” He pulled a bottle out—a halfway decent merlot. “Would you care for some wine?”

The newspaper lowered. “One glass. That’s all. You are not going to break through my reserve through inebriation.”

“Then I’ll do it some other way.” Crowley poured out the wine, and handed over the glass. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you haven’t turned a single page of the paper over yet. Do tell me what’s so fascinating on pages two and three that it has captivated you for the past hour.”

Aziraphale sighed as he lay the newspaper aside. “Just what did you think you would achieve by this ploy of yours—by this—this _forced_ cohabitation?”

Crowley studied the face he had not seen for twenty years, the beloved face he had known for nearly six millennia. Aziraphale looked stern and determined, yet what Crowley saw beneath that surface was a flicker of the light they once shared.

“I just wanted to see you again, Angel.”

He caught the briefest softening of Aziraphale’s hard gaze before the mask slid back into place. “It mustn’t be allowed.”

“What mustn’t?” Crowley pushed.

“The resumption of our friendship.”

“Why not? I’m _sorry_.” Crowley drank off nearly half the wine in his glass. Twenty years without a glimmer of hope—and now, he had to be oh so careful not to set Aziraphale off again. He had to do whatever it took to get him back into his life, for the world had grown so dull and empty without him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should never have asked you for holy water.”

“No. You went too far—”

“But for God’s sake, Aziraphale—I was only trying to protect myself!” He had to explain his reasoning, he had to make the angel _listen_ this time. “You are the one who always worried about Hell coming after me. You were the one who got upset whenever I tempted fate by breaking the rules. Right? So all I wanted was insurance—told you that then. If—well, more likely, _when_ Hell comes after me someday, I wanted a way to fight.” He took another long drink.

“So you say,” Aziraphale replied as he sipped at his wine. “But it was far too dangerous, and you should have known better than to ask me to bring you something that could destroy you.” He paused. “And if Heaven found out what I’d done—well, they might have come after _me_.”

“I would never have wanted that.” Crowley rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’ve said that I’m sorry. What more do you want?” He looked at Aziraphale with deep affection. “Angel, I can’t go on like this, without seeing you, without talking, without being _friends_. I need you.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s better this way.”

“How? How is it better?” Crowley felt like smashing something. His glance fell on the violin. Probably not a good idea….

“It’s safer this way, for both of us.”

He thought he caught a slight hitch in Aziraphale’s voice. “I don’t care. Angel, the only reason I wanted a chance to fight for my life against Hell was so I could _stay here with you_. And now I don’t even have that—ironic, I guess, that I wound up losing you by trying to keep hold of you.”

Aziraphale went quiet. Crowley stared out the window as he slowly finished off his wine. Then he refilled the glass, and waited.

He heard a clock ticking somewhere in the room. Crowley looked round at the various weapons adorning the walls. Perhaps he could smash the bloody clock with that big spear…he frowned. What sort of fellow _was_ this Sherlock Holmes anyway? 

“What have we gotten ourselves into?” He rose for a better view out the window. The man in the doorway across the street had been joined by a second. They were smoking, and one was gesturing wildly. _Uh-oh_. “We don’t have to do anything if something goes wrong, do we?”

Aziraphale stood up to join him at the window. “I do not believe Holmes would expect that.” 

One of the men below pointed up at their window. The other one dropped his cigarette and stomped on it as he shook his head. 

“They’re arguing,” Crowley said. “What if one of them has figured out the switch?”

“Well, I don’t see what we _could_ do…though it is, I was told, a matter of grave import to the Empire’s security, and if there _was_ something we could do, I suppose we ought to try…oh, dear. This is frightful. Look at my hands.”

Aziraphale’s hands were trembling, and his wine glass shook. 

“Calm down. Nothing is going to hap—” Crowley broke off as one of the two men strode purposefully across the street towards the entrance to 221B. “Damn.”

Aziraphale quickly downed the rest of his wine and set down the glass. “What do we _do?”_

“Sit down.” Crowley resumed his place in the armchair. “We do what we were told to do—send him away. Don’t say a word. I’ll be rude, and get rid of him.”

He heard noises downstairs, then footsteps on the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson’s strident voice. “Don’t get a moment’s peace in my own home. Clients at all hours. It isn’t decent, I say!”

There came a knock at the door. “Visitor for you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Send him away,” Crowley called out. He recalled the bullet holes in the wall, and added, “I am about to engage in some pistol practice.”

But the door slammed open instead. Crowley turned round to see a short, burly man stride into the room as the landlady threw her hands up. “I could not stop him, Mr. Holmes!”

Crowley tried to keep in the shadows, away from the lamplight. “Get out, you bastard—or I shall throw you out!”

The man breathed raggedly as he said, “Like to see you try. Give over, you—show yourself! Are you really Sherlock Holmes?” He took a step closer.

Crowley leapt from the chair and crossed in three quick paces to the fireplace, where he snatched up the poker. He waved it at the man. “Would you like to put my skills to the test?”

The fellow stepped back towards the door. “Hold up, Guv’nor. No need for that. Just trying to settle a bet with me mate, that’s all. No harm done.” And with that, he shoved past Mrs. Hudson and sped down the stairs.

The landlady glared at Crowley. “Not safe in me own house, I’m not.” She sniffed, and then went slowly downward out of sight.

Crowley crossed to the window. He and Aziraphale watched as the burly fellow emerged from the house and dashed over to his confederate. After a brief conversation, the second man nodded. One of them stepped into the street and waved his hat towards the far end. Apparently, the burly man _did_ know what Holmes looked light well enough to tell them apart.

“There’s a carriage down there,” Aziraphale said. “It’s starting towards them—Crowley, what do we _do?”_ He clutched at Crowley’s arm. “If they are able to warn whoever Holmes and Watson are trying to stop—it could be disastrous.”

“Come on, then.” Crowley tossed the poker aside and dashed for the door. “Let’s follow them.”

Aziraphale clattered down the stairs behind him. As they came onto the street, they saw the two men climb into the carriage. Crowley glanced around and spied a hansom cab half a block down. He waved, and the driver snapped the reins and the cab started towards them.

“I could use a miracle to stop them,” Aziraphale said as the cab approached.

“Nonsense,” Crowley replied as he climbed into the cab. “Let’s have some fun, Angel.” He suddenly didn’t care if he were putting himself in danger. As Aziraphale climbed in beside him, he called up to the driver to follow the carriage.

Off they went at a brisk trot down the dark streets. No, he didn’t really care what happened now. Aziraphale still wasn’t willing to make amends, he had no friend here on Earth, and Crowley simply lost all sense of self-preservation with that knowledge.

What did it matter if he did something foolish, if these criminals tried to waylay him, or even to kill him? Discorporation might be a blessing, for he would no longer have the possibility of Aziraphale’s company. And he would no longer be taunted by its _impossibility_. And he would not be haunted by the faint flicker of hope that had kept him going.

The carriage picked up speed, and Crowley ordered the cab driver to keep pace. They barreled along the streets, turning corners with wild abandon. Out the window, he kept an eye on where they were heading—and as the horses pounded past the shops and apartment buildings, and then past Regent’s Park, he could tell were heading southeast towards the center of London. 

“This is absurd,” Aziraphale said as he hung on to a strap. “We are unarmed. Why are you doing this?”

“For Victoria Regina,” Crowley replied.

“Yes, fine, but there is no reason for us to risk our lives when we can use our powers to—” Aziraphale suddenly stared at Crowley. “You _want_ to risk your life! That’s what this is all about!”

Crowley shrugged. “What if I do? Why should _you_ care?”

“I don’t want to lose you, you idiot! I only want you to be _safe_ —”

“By keeping away from me, which is _exactly_ the same as losing me, Angel.”

“I may not see you, but at least I know you’re _alive_ somewhere on Earth—”

“ _Not good enough._ ” Crowley was done. He had _had_ it with Aziraphale’s ridiculous notions of staying out of trouble with Hell, or for that matter, with Heaven. “We spent thousands of years taking chances! And it was all worth it, Angel—because I don’t _care_ if Hell comes for me, not for this, not for taking a chance on friendship.”

He knew then, in that moment, as they hurtled along the street, that there was no reason to hold back anything anymore, that if he was going to go out, he was going to go out with the truth on his lips.

“Aziraphale,” he said, and then took a deep breath. “Angel, I don’t care if I take risks for you—I don’t care if I risk everything for love.”

There. He had said it. 

“Love…” Aziraphale repeated. “Crowley, I—”

Their cab came to an abrupt halt. Crowley looked out to see that they had turned into a darkened lane between two buildings, that the carriage had stopped ahead of them. The two men climbed out and walked towards them, and one of them held a gun. He aimed it at the cab.

“I can’t back up!” shouted their driver.

“Get down!” Crowley yelled up at him. A shot sounded, and a bullet splintered the window frame. 

Aziraphale grabbed him and pulled him down to the seat. “Time for a miracle, I believe.”

“Have at it,” Crowley said as he felt a trickle of sticky wetness down his forehead. Was he bleeding, of all things?

A second gunshot sounded but the bullet never reached the cab as Aziraphale snapped his fingers. 

“That should do nicely.” He pulled Crowley up as he straightened on the seat. “Driver!” Aziraphale called upward. “The way should now be clear!”

“Oi, that’s peculiar,” their cab driver replied. “Where did they go?”

“Just return us to 221B Baker Street, my good man. You shall be handsomely rewarded.”

“As you wish, guv’nor.” The hansom moved forward.

Crowley reluctantly disentangled himself so he could look out at the alleyway. The carriage, and the men, were nowhere to be seen. “Where did you send them?”

“Not entirely sure,” Aziraphale said. “Somewhere far to the east…possibly Afghanistan.”

“Thanks.” Crowley touched at his forehead. 

“Let me see that, my dear fellow.” 

Crowley warmed at hearing those words which he had missed for two decades. “It’s fine.” He looked at the window, where the first bullet fired was lodged in the shattered wooden frame. He touched his hair, and pulled out a few wood shards. “Just a splinter.” He raised hopeful eyebrows. “Stings a little, though.”

“Allow me, my dear.” Aziraphale slowly waved a hand over Crowley’s forehead. “There you go.”

Crowley sighed. _My dear fellow_ , and now _my dear_. He touched his head, which was no longer wet nor sticky. The pain had vanished. “Thanks, Angel.”

Aziraphale smiled softly, but then turned away to stare out the window.

Crowley decided to stay quiet, to let his friend have whatever contemplative thoughts he wished to have, and not to press for anything more just yet.

Thus they rode in silence back to the Baker Street lodgings. Aziraphale paid the driver an enormous bonus. 

They climbed up to their temporary rooms. Crowley looked at the clock. Half past ten. If Holmes and Watson successfully concluded their case, they should return between eleven and midnight. “Not much longer to wait.” 

To his surprise, Aziraphale stretched and yawned. “That was all rather tiring.” He crossed to the settee and sank down on it. “I may just take a short rest.” He raised inquisitive eyebrows. “What about you?”

Crowley certainly needed no further hints. A huge weight lifted from his heart as he hurried over to join Aziraphale on the settee. “Angel, are we really good? Do you forgive me—are we fine, are we friends, are we—”

“Hush.” Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley’s chest. “Calm down.”

“I can’t.” He could feel his non-human heart thumping wildly. Crowley took a few steadying breaths. “I need to know if—if everything’s all right, if you’ll talk to me, if we’ll go for walks and meals and if—if—Angel, I need to know about what I said in that cab—”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You shouldn’t speak such things out loud, my dear.”

_Too dangerous_. Right. Always and ever, their lives together were full of worry and fear. Crowley sighed. He pulled Aziraphale close, in a light embrace, and brushed his cheek against the angel’s hair. “Can I whisper?”

He felt Aziraphale’s arms go around him, and thought he might discorporate on the spot. He felt Aziraphale nod.

Crowley caressed his friend’s hair as he spoke into his ear, barely audible, the mere whisper of a breath. “I love you, Angel. Don’t go away again. Ever.”

He felt Aziraphale’s hold tighten. Aziraphale turned his head a bit to look at him. “Take off those ridiculous glasses, please.”

Crowley did so. 

Aziraphale gazed at him steadily as he said softly, “I forgive you. Will you forgive me for staying away for—well, for staying away, and for the things I said—we _are_ friends.”

“I forgive you.” Crowley bit his lower lip, wondering about the rest of it…did he dare ask, did he want to know how Aziraphale felt about love?

He stayed silent, and he waited. _Six thousand years_ …or near as made no difference. Hereditary enemies…surely the angel had not believed that for a long, long time. _Please say what I wish to hear_.

Aziraphale’s eyes were full of warmth and light as he said, “We truly shouldn’t feel affection for each other, you know.” He sighed. “And yet, my dear, I feel rather astonished to find that I do feel it. That I have felt it for centuries, for millennia…and I am even more astonished to find affection has slowly deepened into love.”

Crowley’s world caught fire. “Oh, Angel…” He brushed his fingers over Aziraphale’s face. “I _belong_ to you—”

“Hush—”

Crowley kissed his forehead. “My heart belongs to you.”

“I said, shush—”

He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “Can’t. My soul belongs to you.”

“My dear, it’s too much.” Aziraphale pulled away. “Do please let me get used to this more slowly.”

“Sorry.” Crowley smiled. He knew how his Angel was. “Right. Good. I’m good.” And he did feel fine, and content, just knowing the love was there between them. “How about if we just stay here for a while, just cuddled up a bit…maybe have that rest you wanted.”

“That would be lovely.”

They settled into a comfortable embrace, Aziraphale nestling his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “I do feel unusually sleepy.”

“So do I.” He was happy to take a nap with his dearest friend in all the world beside him, knowing he would awake with his world set to rights. “Close your eyes, then.” He brushed his lips ever so faintly across Aziraphale’s forehead. “Good night, Angel.”

He felt Aziraphale’s arm, wrapped round his waist, tighten briefly. “Good night, my dear Crowley.”

To his amazement, Aziraphale brushed his lips against Crowley’s cheek before he settled down once more.

And in that touch, all _was_ right with his world at last.

*

When Holmes and Watson returned to their rooms at midnight, they were startled to find their doppelgangers curled on the settee, asleep in each other’s arms.

“For shame!” Watson cried.

“Indeed,” Holmes said. “We must wake them this instant!”

“Of course we must.” Watson smiled as he took Sherlock’s hand in his. “After all, they are in our favorite spot!”

*

The End


End file.
